


Steal the Blush

by witchoil



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Abigail Hobbs, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Multi, Murder Family, Older Man/Younger Woman, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Omega Will Graham, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24975271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchoil/pseuds/witchoil
Summary: Despite all of Dr. Bloom's well-intentioned advice (and, certainly, expertise), Abigail can't help what she wants.
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Abigail Hobbs, Will Graham/Abigail Hobbs/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	Steal the Blush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roughmagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughmagic/gifts).



> This was done for yet another WILDLY SUCCESSFUL private exchange between friends and GOD DID IT EVER BRING ME JOY TO WRITE.
> 
> Thank you so much, babe, for the absolutely stunning prompt, and for your trust and enthusiasm. I hope this scratches your itch! 
> 
> CW: This fic includes some gender stuff that some may find unpleasant to read. Please see end notes for more (spoilery) detail.

Abigail knew she had found Will’s classroom the moment she stepped in. His smell, comforting and slightly animal, lingered in the air despite the students that must have been going in and out all day. The lights were low while there wasn’t a class in session but even without them, Abigail could see the muted coloring of the floors, the podium, the walls. Ochre, like a magazine ad from the ‘70’s, with accents of forest green and yellowing ivory. Lived-in. It felt lived-in. 

She knocked lightly on the jamb of the door to the attached office. 

The curly-haired head bent over the desk jerked as Will looked up. “Office hours are to be scheduled online--” 

Will’s eyes skated over her in that way that made the hairs at the back of Abigail’s neck rise up, catching on her face only long enough for it to have been an accident. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone (well, anyone other than Dr. Lecter) and even though she knew he _had_ to look at other people sometimes, it still always gave her that thrill when he looked at her. 

“Abigail,” he said to the air to the right of her head. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be--” 

“At the looney bin? Yeah. I, um-- I moved out. I came to let you know.” 

Will pushed his wooden chair back with a faint thump against the carpet and placed one hand on the desk for balance as he twisted to look at a side table behind it. “I’m sorry I don’t have much. Do you drink instant coffee?” 

“No, it’s fine. Doctor Bloom will be back in a minute. She’s taking me to my new place. She just had to go pick some stuff up from her office. And before you ask, yes, she thought it was a terrible idea.”

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea, just surprised.” 

“That I asked or that she let me?” 

One of those curious, nervous smiles tugged at the corners of Will’s mouth like a hook in the mouth of a fish and he breathed a sharp sigh. 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Abigail said. “If it helps, apparently Hannibal won’t be too far away. In case I forget how to make box mac n’ cheese.” She did not mention that he could also help her make psilocybin tea. 

“Was that Doctor Bloom’s idea?” 

Abigail covered her mouth with her hand, then pulled it away. “No, it definitely wasn’t. But she couldn’t find a place near her and I, uh, don’t think she liked the idea of me being too close to you.” 

When she found Will’s eyes again, Abigail saw that they were on her, but not her face. She touched her scarf and swept her fingers through the ends like they were ribbons. From across the room, she could hear Will swallow. He blinked like a doe, all-seeing and unaware. Abigail’s stomach ached. 

“Don’t you want to know why?” 

“I trust Alana’s decisions. Sometimes more than I trust my own.” 

Will scratched at the collar of his shirt, rumpled and discolored from what Abigail had come to realize was a clinical-strength perspiration problem. At first she had wondered if it was an omega thing, but she didn’t remember her mother having any issues like that. She didn’t remember much about her mother anymore, though, anyways. 

“I feel like you’re not supposed to say stuff like that around me.” 

Will gave another wheezing laugh, this one much closer to sincerity than the last. “Probably not. But I’m not your caseworker.” 

Despite her earlier refusal, the kettle clicked off as it finally came to a boil. Saliva pooled in the back of Abigail’s throat at the smell of the cheap instant coffee and Will hunched over it, stirring dutifully. 

_That_ was probably an omega thing, if Abigail were to guess. That sweet-and-sour doggy smell and the warm-but-prickly way Will treated those who merited more than compulsory pleasantries. They weren’t typical, as far as she could tell, but Abigail knew her own sense of “the normal” was diminished. One might even say _damaged_. 

Hannibal. Hannibal would say that. 

“Here,” he said, waveringly. His nails were white where he gripped the handle of a scuffed-up souvenir mug. 

Abigail stepped forward to take it. Glancing at his desk was like having a flashback. High-contrast photos of gore and very boring interior design. 

“Is that _The Master and Margarita_?” The ceramic of the mug burned Abigail’s fingers as she took it but she hardly noticed.

“I don’t have much time for pleasure reading, but I’m trying to spare my eyes some of the strain of fly-tying. And you said you liked it.” 

Abigail touched the cover of the book with the tips of her fingers. It was worn, definitely used. Will didn’t seem like the type of person who would buy anything new, if he could help it, so that made sense. “Do you like it?” She nudged the book, looking for where a bookmark might interrupt the tops of the silent pages. 

“I memorize the page number.” 

“Oh.” 

“And I don’t know what I think yet. It’s been a long time since I read something for the first time.” 

“Me, too,” Abigail said without thinking, voice soft and blank as she watched the blood rush back into Will’s nail beds. It wasn’t true, but it felt true. The last time she’d sat down with a new book or anything more complicated than a food label was before. “Do you have any recommendations?” 

“Abigail! Are you ready to go?” 

Abigail could feel that Alana stood with her arms crossed without turning to see, her voice level and tight. The sound of it made Abigail’s shoulders twitch. Oil danced across the surface of her coffee. “Just a minute.” 

“Hello, Will,” Alana said, oh so smooth and friendly. 

“Alana,” Will said with a nod in no particular direction. He lowered his voice more than necessary when he said to Abigail, “You can borrow my copy of _Dune_ if you don’t mind that it’s in two pieces.” 

Tiny goosebumps broke out on Abigail’s arms and she couldn’t help the tight little smile that dimpled her cheeks. “Really?”

Will’s eyebrows twitched in something like a nod. He knelt to open his messenger bag. “Sure, I have it here.” 

“What’s that?” Alana asked. The _click-clack_ of her heels turned to a cardiac _da-dum, da-dum_ on the carpet as she approached.

Abigail clenched her fists and felt her throat loosen, all her limbs going numb at once. The smell of the coffee went from soothing to acrid. Or was that Alana? She was usually musky and wine-sharp but Abigail’s nose wrinkled at the sudden intrusion of an unfamiliar sweetness like fermenting fruit. Alana reached with a bare wrist into the space between Abigail and Will, using one finger to drag a crime scene photo towards herself. 

Something bubbled in Abigail’s belly and she groaned involuntarily, letting loose air the way one might burp, or gasp when struck. But the sound of it wasn’t quite like a groan, instead it rattled the bones of her neck and chest like an idling truck’s engine, half as deep and just as loud. 

Alana pulled back as if burned.

It wasn’t until Will shushed her that she realized she’d been growling. _Growling_ , like a fucking animal. “Hey,” Will said, uncharacteristically gentle, “hey, you’re okay.” He was using his dog training voice on her. 

“Here.” He pressed the brittle book he’d promised into her hands. “You can read it while you’re waiting on a TV.” 

It felt warm when Abigail tucked it under her arm. How tight had Will been gripping it in that moment? Had his bag been resting on his lap before she intruded? Her breath was hot on the skin of her lips. “I don’t really watch much TV anyways.”

“Me neither,” Will said. 

Alana coughed from an obvious six feet away. “Sorry about that. Are you ready, Abigail?” 

“Yeah, um, I’m good. Oh, wait, your mug--” 

Will shook his head. “Keep it. I’m sure you need some dishes anyways.”

“Sure,” Abigail nodded, “I do, thanks.” 

\--

Alana didn’t say anything right away when they got back to the car. They just sat there with the heat off, stewing in the strange, sweaty smell of two people who spent too much time in outerwear. 

Alana cleared her throat, hands firmly at ten and two. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want, but--” 

“That’s never happened before,” Abigail snapped. “I’m not-- I’m not like that.” 

“It’s not your fault, Abigail. I know I can-- I come on strong, sometimes. That’s the price of not taking suppressants. I know it can rub other alphas the wrong way. It’s not personal.” 

“Well I’m not.” 

The engine purred and turned over in the silence, not quite loud enough to mask the sound of another one of Alana’s disappointed little sighs. 

“I don’t want you to feel awkward about it, and don’t blame yourself. Will is...nurturing. In a way that not a lot of people in this business are. There’s a reason there aren’t many omegas working at Quantico. It’s normal to feel close to someone like that, for a young female alpha like you. And it’s okay if you want to talk to me about those things. I get it, I went through it, too.” 

Abigail worried the handle of Will’s mug with her thumb, rubbing back and forth over the dingy surface. The coffee inside had long gone cold but she sipped at it anyways to chase away the sour flavor of Alana’s worry. “I told you. I’m not like that. I’m not an alpha.” 

Abigail could practically hear Alana blink in the silence that followed. “Hm. Let’s get you home, okay?” 

\--

On Abigail’s first night in the apartment -- a spare, off-white maze populated by a random collection of furniture salvaged from streetcorners and thrift shops -- Alana ordered in, generously. They had dumplings and beef and broccoli with sides of rice and hot and sour soup and a few other things that didn’t last long enough for Abigail to bother learning the names for. Alana stayed that night, which was nice, but there was a tension that didn’t quite leave Abigail’s shoulders until she packed up and left the following morning. 

The food lasted another two days, since Abigail ate conservatively and could get coffee from a nearby bodega in the mornings, but by the middle of her third day she knew she needed to shop if she wanted dinner. 

That such a mundane task could be so crucial seemed strange to Abigail. She could get takeout, of course, there was plenty of money in her account since she wasn’t exactly planning to use it for college tuition anytime soon. But even then, she had to make a decision. When was the last time she’d really had to think about feeding herself? 

Her phone pinged with a text and Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat. 

**Unknown** Hello, Abigail. Are you busy this evening? I have a housewarming gift I’d like to share with you and could make us some dinner if you’re amenable. 

**AH** Is this Dr. Lecter? I didn’t know you could text. 

**Unknown** My apologies, yes, this is Hannibal. 

Abigail tapped away, updating his contact as she considered his offer. 

**Dr. Lecter** So, what do you think? May I intrude upon your evening? 

**AH** That would be great, actually. Let me grab my address for you.

**Dr. Lecter** No need. I’ll be there shortly. 

**AH** Oh, did Dr. Bloom give it to you?

Abigail found it hard to imagine she would, given their recent tension. 

**Dr. Lecter** You know how things travel. 

She didn’t know exactly how long it had been between Hannibal texting her and knocking at her door, but it hardly seemed long enough to prepare a meal’s worth of supplies and cross this side of the city. 

Abigail brushed her hair away from her face as she opened the door and only realized as she opened it, feeling a buffet of cool air from the hall around her face and neck, that she had forgotten her scarf. That was the first way he caught her off guard. Not on his own power, but nonetheless it started them off on slightly unequal footing. 

She slapped her hand up to her neck. 

“Hi, Doctor Lecter. Come in.” 

“Good evening, Abigail. Are you well?” 

She could see his eyes sweeping over the room behind her, no doubt noting the sad, mismatched furnishings and cracked sheetrock walls. 

Abigail nodded. Hannibal bent to set a cold bag on the floor and one hand fluttered to his breast pocket. He pulled the square from it with a flourish, all the crisp folds loosening into the air. “Take this,” he offered, “for your neck.” 

Abigail plucked the pocket square from his fingers without touching him and was surprised to find that it was just wide enough to tie the corners together around her neck. 

“I hope that’s better,” Hannibal said. 

“It is, thanks.” 

“My pleasure. The kitchen?” 

Like Alana, Hannibal was generous with his gift of food, but it was different. Chinese takeout was nice, comforting, but the feast of unfamiliar meats and only half-familiar vegetables ignited an excitement in Abigail that didn’t also bring back unwanted memories of home. Or at least not the pleasant ones, which bothered her more these days than the bad ones. 

Hannibal took a smooth leather case out of the cold bag after the food and opened it with a reverence Abigail knew all too well. 

“Are those your cooking knives?” She asked, although she hardly had to. 

“Actually,” Hannibal said, laying them out on the counter side-by-side, “these are yours. If you’d like them. My guess is that Doctor Bloom ‘forgot’ a few things when helping you furnish your new home. I have nothing against her judgment, but I can’t have you trying to prepare meals with a butter knife.” 

“Thank you,” Abigail said. She brushed a finger along the smooth handle of one of the larger knives. It might have been wood or a lacquered composite. Definitely something more suited to a kitchen than a deer stand. She felt more at ease than she expected, her hands perfectly still as she inspected her new tools. 

“Think nothing of it. I am always happy to share the joys of gastronomie.” 

In the time that she’d been looking at Hannibal’s gift, he had started something sauteeing on the stove, the aroma of garlic filling Abigail’s mouth as pleasantly as any bite of food. 

“Take that one on the end,” Hannibal instructed, gesturing with one hand while he rolled up the sleeve of that arm with the other. “Chop this for me.” 

Abigail stood herself at the cutting board Hannibal had left out and set about carefully chopping the leaves of tarragon he placed before it. She didn’t ask what he was making because she suspected his answer would mean little to her, but watched how he assembled each piece. 

Some root vegetables, baked quickly and at high heat with the aroma of something ground and spicy. Thinly-sliced pork, marbled with fat and simmered in a sweet-smoky sauce that left them glistening and slightly sticky. Couscous with tiny, colorful jewels of chopped dried fruit and _scented_ , as Hannibal explained, with a dash of rose water and melted lard. 

The kitchen filled with a dozen smells, layering like blankets around Abigail’s shoulders and pressing all the tension of the last three days out of her body. It was as if the fragrant air filled her head and pushed out all of the thoughts that had taken up unwanted residence there. 

Hannibal set an elegant table for them with the simple, department-store cutlery Alana had picked out.

“Huh,” Abigail said, sitting down at her place across from him, “I didn’t think this could look so...nice.” 

“It’s amazing what a little attention to detail can do, don’t you think?” 

“It’s different, but it’s nice.” 

“Good. You’re looking more relaxed, I noticed.” 

Abigail reached with a fork towards a plate heaped with arugula salad. The bitterness of the leaves, Hannibal said, offset by spiced, candied nuts and a glaze dressing of beef drippings and black vinegar. He nudged the dish closer so she could reach and Abigail made a small noise of thanks, feeling at once more and less herself than she had when eating with Alana a few days earlier. 

“I guess it’s nice to have someone around, after a few days alone.” 

“Has Doctor Bloom not been by?” 

True to his promise, Abigail found the taste of the salad to be complex but intensely pleasant, like all of the best bits of a meal rolled up into a single bite. She chewed slowly and swallowed as she thought of how to word her response. 

“I think she thought it would be best to give me some space.” 

“Hm. That doesn’t sound like the Doctor Bloom I know.” Hannibal raised his eyes to meet Abigail’s and she couldn’t mistake the mischief in them. It certainly didn’t sound like the Alana that had come into his kitchen and yelled at him well within Abigail’s earshot. 

“You don’t sound mad about that.” 

“I think a little time alone can be good for us, even when we are in need of support.” 

“Is that what you guys are to me? Support?” 

A half smile pulled at Hannibal’s lips. “I think we would like to be, yes, if that’s also what you’d like.” 

Abigail pulled at a piece of pork, watching how the fat clung to the muscle and snapped back. “Doctor Bloom… Sometimes I think we want different things.” 

“That’s very possible. Did something happen earlier this week that you’d like to talk about?” 

“No,” Abigail said, too quickly. “Well, yeah. Nothing bad, just. Weird.” 

“How so?” Hannibal glanced at her as he took another bite and Abigail could feel herself flush. 

There was no point in beating around the bush, pretending it was something else. Hannibal could smell lies on her like perfume, something she’d learned since they began to have _secrets_ together. 

“I saw Will, um, Agent Graham, at Quantico when we stopped there for a few things. I went to his office just to say hi. And then Doctor Bloom showed up and, I don’t know. It was weird.” 

“Did she say something that upset you?”

“No, no.” Abigail twirled her fork, unsure what to do with her hands. She suddenly felt that same strange stomach ache and the idea of taking another bite of food sounded unpleasant. “It was me, I think. It was my fault.” 

Hannibal set his fork and knife down soundlessly, pulling back in his seat and fixing Abigail with that blank stare he always gave when his attention was total. 

“He was handing me something, just a book, but she got between us and… I don’t know. I didn’t like it.” 

Hannibal folded his hands in his lap and gave a meaningless little nod. “Do you mind if I ask you something personal, Abigail?” The words rolled out of his mouth thick with his unplaceable accent. He always said her name with a pleasant little lilt, the _A_ soft and round as it bounced off the percussive following _B_. 

Abigail shook her head. 

“How long were you taking hormone replacements?” 

Abigail’s stomach dropped violently to her feet and her skin prickled. “How would you--?” 

“I gather that you don’t want to talk about this, but I think it might be helpful to address it.” 

“Address what?” 

“That you’re an alpha, Abigail, a strong one, that has for some reason been masquerading as an omega. Tell me, why would a doctor prescribe post-menopausal omega hormone replacements to a healthy young alpha?” 

Abigail coughed and hoped desperately that she wouldn’t have to find out what the arugula salad tasted like coming back up. In the moment it felt like a losing battle. “You’re right, I don’t want to talk about this.” 

“We don’t have to. But you may find it therapeutic to unburden yourself.” 

“Everybody keeps telling me that.” 

“Do you disagree?” 

“How am I supposed to know? I don’t feel any better than I did the day you guys killed my dad.” 

“The day your father tried to kill you.” 

If she had been clutching a glass, it would have shattered in Abigail’s hand. If she’d been holding a knife, it would have found a home in Hannibal’s breastbone and she would have pulled, pulled, pulled. 

“You want to know why? Yeah, it was my dad. He had some stupid midwestern fantasy of the perfect family with a little omega wife and perfect omega daughter. Then when I was fourteen, I found out that I had fucked that up. And I tried to hide it because what else are you supposed to do? And it didn’t work because of course it didn’t and he started giving me my ‘meds.’ And then he had his perfect fantasy family and I didn’t fuck it up anymore.” 

“I see,” Hannibal said in just that way. “He saw you as a pawn, a toy in a collection, rather than a person with her own identity and wants. Does that make you angry?” 

Abigail resisted the very childish urge to cross her arms over her chest, but just barely. She returned his gaze, glassy and placid hard. “I don’t know what it makes me.” 

“Then what about now that he’s gone? What did you want, Abigail? When Alana got between you and Will?” 

“I wanted… I wanted to yell at her to get the fuck out. I wanted to smack her.”

“And why didn’t you?” 

Abigail scoffed, heat rising in her cheeks. “Are you saying I should have?” 

“No, merely asking why you didn’t.”

“Everyone already thinks I’m crazy, thinks I’m just like my dad.”

“Doctor Bloom doesn’t think you’re crazy.”

“Oh, please!” Abigail could feel her voice cracking even as she willIed it down. “She doesn’t have to _think_ it. I can see it all over her face when she talks to me. When she tries to talk me out of things. Like I’m ten seconds from flying off the handle.” 

“Do you feel like you’re going to do that? Afraid you’ll prove her right?” 

That part of Abigail, the part that had moved her body without asking and rumbled like thunder at the base of her spine, reared up. “I don’t know what I’ll do.” 

“That’s very honest, Abigail. Something not many people can admit to. But it’s powerful, to know that you don’t know, because it gives you the opportunity to choose.” 

“So you’re saying I should apologize to her? Go back on the hormones?” 

“Not at all,” Hannibal said, finally breaking the spell of his motionlessness. He grasped the stem of his wine glass with careful fingers and took a sip. “I’m saying that this is an opportunity to decide what it is you want to be. Without your father’s opinions in mind, or Doctor Bloom’s if you don’t want them.” 

A laugh bubbled from Abigail’s throat and fell limply onto her plate. She stabbed at the salad again, skewering leaves like they were trying to get away from her. “Sure. I guess I could just walk into Will’s office and tell him I’m going to--to-- right there on the desk. Because I can. Because that’s what I want.” 

“Is it? Do you desire him?” 

The directness of Hannibal’s question sucked the fight out of Abigail like cold metal stealing heat from exposed skin. “It doesn’t matter if I do. Except that it would be embarrassing.”

“Did you know that the chemical communications between reproductive dynamics aren’t one-way? Alphas tend to have certain amounts of baseline aggression and certain strong reactions, but it’s rarer than you might think that such a reaction manifests in the absence of complementary feedback.”

“Alpha protectiveness is as much about the feelings of the omega that it shields as it is about the Alpha themself. Otherwise, why would we need such complicated systems of pheromone production and reception? If all of our interactions were ego-driven, we wouldn’t have evolved such sensitive and subterranean systems of communication.” 

“So I got upset because Will and I were having some kind of conversation?” 

“A powerful one, I think. Even if you haven’t been off of the hormones for very long, it’s been long enough. That and Will doesn’t typically have an interest in alphas. Nor betas.” 

“How would you know that?” Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat before she could will it not to.

“I’m afraid that it’s not entirely my choice to tell you that,” Hannibal said, which was as complete an answer as if he had just said it outright. 

“You two…?” 

He pushed on without pause. “But I can see why he might also be conflicted if your…” Hannibal paused, “attentions were reciprocated.” 

Abigail’s head swam so much that she wondered if there had secretly been liquor in the hibiscus tea Hannibal poured for her dinner. “That’s not funny.” 

“I’m not trying to be,” Hannibal said and picked up his fork once more. “Eat, Abigail. We don’t want all of this to get cold before you even get to try it.” 

\--

It took Abigail three days of suffering on the edge of a rut after Hannibal visited to figure it out. 

Certainly something about her encounter with Will had set it off. It was like the sight of him on his knees holding that book woke a part of her up from a four-year sleep. She knew because she’d felt hot and claustrophobic with Alana around all night, despite the sparseness of the apartment and Alana’s meticulous, unobtrusive kindness. 

But it had been _Hannibal_ that triggered it. 

With his questions and his fragrant dishes; his dangerous, utilitarian gift; his offering of Will as easily as a priest offered communion. Like Will was his to give. 

Before, Abigail had thought about sex very little and _wanted_ to think about it even less. In comparison to what she’d felt that first time, that first rut that came on like a summer thunderstorm, everything after the drugs felt muted. Desire, yes, but most other pleasures, too. The only thing that came through clear was the fear. And that was alright, because that fear kept her safe. 

But in the absence of all of that, Abigail’s wants mingled with her fears almost indiscriminately. She went to the refrigerator and stood, staring into its light, sucking slivers of glazed pork into her mouth at 2:00am. She ate and thought about Will. She listened to unfamiliar music and thought about Hannibal. She watched people walk down the street at night and thought about Nicholas Boyle, bleeding out on the floor of her family home. 

She laid in bed and couldn’t stop thinking, even as she slipped her hand under the waistband of her sleep shorts. How did Hannibal touch Will, if he did? Did he undress him or just talk him to the edge? Did Alana know? She hoped not. Abigail coaxed herself to hardness from between her lips, touching that flushed and aching extension of herself for the first time since her first time. With her other hand, she touched the soft pages of the only book on her nightstand. She had hardly read it, but she wanted to _god_ she wanted to. She came with a quiet gasp and a sheet between her teeth. 

Her cell phone buzzed in time with an aftershock shooting up her spine. Only one person in her life ever texted her. 

**Dr. Lecter** Hello, Abigail. Doctor Bloom tells me you’re doing well. Will you be free two nights from now? I’m thinking of having a dinner party. 

Despite having just finished, Abigail’s heart rate did not slow. 

**AH** I’m extremely busy, but I think I can find the time. Who’s coming?

**Dr. Lecter** Excellent, I’ll have a cab sent to your address for 7:00. Guest list forthcoming. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. 

\--

Hannibal’s kitchen was as beautiful and uncomfortable as she remembered it. With its dark stone surfaces and cold, clinical light, it almost reminded Abigail of a morgue on TV. The island was certainly large enough for her to lay down on, if she ever decided to try. 

But when Hannibal walked into it, the room transformed. He wore a warm, ivory shirt, unbuttoned to the collarbone and sleeves rolled as he always did while he cooked. The light grazed him, but didn’t penetrate, just bounced off, diffused, seeming to reach deeper into the corners of the counters than it had a moment ago. Even the charcoal color of the counters seemed richer. 

“Abigail,” Hannibal said with one of those snaggle-toothed smiles. “My apologies for having you let yourself in, but I had some time-sensitive ingredients to tend to.” 

Abigail plucked the key out of her pocket, still warm from where it had rested in her hand on the ride over. Hannibal hadn’t actually sent a cab, but the kind of black towncar that Abigail didn’t think really existed in real life. The driver had opened the door for her and offered an envelope from his pocket with her name written on it in Hannibal’s unmistakable hand. 

“It’s no problem,” Abigail said. The key made a satisfying snapping sound on the countertop as she set it down. 

Hannibal pressed both palms into the countertop and rolled his neck. “Keep it,” he said. “In case of emergency, or if you ever require company outside of your own apartment.” 

Abigail reached to take the key, but her hand stopped midair when Will walked into the kitchen. 

“Hi,” she said, fighting the urge to tuck her chin. 

“This is a surprise,” he said back, more to Hannibal than her. Hannibal fixed him with a look but said nothing. Will shook his head. “Sorry. Hi, Abigail. It’s been a while.” 

“You two can have a seat in the dining room if you’d like,” Hannibal said, tossing something fatty and mouthwatering in a pan. “I’ll bring the hors d’oeuvres shortly.” 

Will slid Abigail’s coat off of her shoulders and hung it somewhere she didn’t see. When he came back, he had two beers in his hand, fingers curled tightly around the bottle necks. “Unless you’d prefer wine,” he said to Abigail, who shook her head. “Me neither.” 

They drank in silence for three or four minutes until Abigail cleared her throat and forced herself to address the elephant in the room. 

“I’m-- I’m sorry about the other day. In your office. I was rude. It was embarrassing.” 

Will looked out of place at Hannibal’s table in his worn henley with his elbows on the table. His posture wasn’t exaggeratedly hunched, but it wasn’t as crisp as Hannibal’s or Doctor Bloom’s. He looked relaxed but careful. Abigail felt the same. 

“Hm,” Will said, thinking it over. “I-- I don’t think you should be embarrassed. If anything, I’m at fault.” 

“For making me growl at Doctor Bloom?” 

“No. I mean, yes, but--” Will sighed. “I’m-- By choosing to be unmedicated I make some things...complicated. It wouldn’t be the first time.” 

“Oh,” Abigail said, hoping she sounded understanding. So Hannibal had been making fun after all. “That’s okay. I’m sorry I overreacted. I feel like most, um, adult alphas wouldn’t do something like that. I guess I just don’t-- I don’t have everything under control yet.” 

“Most alphas don’t make me feel the way you do, Abigail.” 

Abigail felt like the beer she had swallowed was trying to bubble its way back up out of her throat.

The smell of hot food announced Hannibal’s arrival a half a second before his footfalls. “Here we are,” he said, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Sauteed chicken hearts in a sauce of caramelized fennel and cracked black pepper. And cabbage leaves, for wrapping.” 

Abigail was glad for the excuse to use her mouth, even if the food filling it was a little strange. 

Then again, not as strange as she thought it might be. “All organ meat tastes the same to me, I think,” she said to Will once Hannibal had left the room. 

Will breathed a silent laugh out of his nose and swallowed. “I feel the same.” 

“It’s good, but it might as well be deer liver.” 

“See, I was thinking kidney.” 

“I guess I wouldn’t know the difference anyways,” Abigail said, admiring how Will’s eyes crinkled when he looked down at his plate. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” 

\--

At first, Abigail thought Hannibal’s insistence on calling their gathering a “dinner party” was a bit hyperbolic. But after three main courses, her mind was beginning to change. 

“I don’t know if I can do any more,” she said, watching her most recent plate disappear from before her in Hannibal’s capable hand. 

“Just one last course,” Hannibal said. “I promise this one will be quick.” 

Abigail was so busy rolling her eyes that she almost didn’t notice the clink of teacups on the table, or the familiar glass pot set between her and Will. 

“Something of an aperitif, if you’d like,” said Hannibal. 

Abigail recognized immediately what was lying in the bottom of the pot, steeping. Hannibal took the arm of the pot and poured so carefully that the mushroom tea didn’t even make a sound as it hit the bottom of Will’s cup, or Abigail’s. 

“Will you--?” Abigail asked, taking in the familiar bitter smell. 

“Not tonight,” Hannibal answered, “though perhaps another time.” 

Abigail considered her cup. Part of her rebelled, remembering how much closer the psilocybin had brought her last time; to her memories, to an uncomfortable thing at the center of herself, to the very taste of the food she ate. 

The bone china cup was warm in her hands, but not too hot. Leave it to Hannibal Lecter to serve magic mushroom tea at the perfect temperature. She brought the cup to her lips and drank and drank and drank. 

Will followed a minute later after what Abigail assumed was his own period of consideration, taking a conservative sip to Abigail’s generous pull. She nodded at him as Hannibal returned to set dessert down before them. 

For once, Hannibal kept his promise about the last course being quick. Dessert was a tiny flourless chocolate cake on a bed of raspberry sauce. Spicy and woody and sweet and bitter all at once, it washed away all of the heaviness and salt of the previous courses without clinging to Abigail’s tongue or teeth. 

She felt like she was eating soil as it was meant to be tasted -- full and familiar but not quite welcoming. 

“How did you like it?” Hannibal asked, coming up quick enough to startle her. She knew she was slowing down as the tea set in, but not like this. 

“You don’t smell like him,” she declared as Hannibal swept away her plate and placed it on the buffet. “Not just that it’s different, because Will smells...strong. But it’s like you’re not there.” 

For what seemed like the first time all night, Hannibal really settled into his seat at the head of the table. “Very astute, Abigail. Most people don’t notice.” 

“That’s a nice way of calling me strange.” 

“Not strange. Extraordinary.” 

Will cleared his throat. “No need to embarrass her.” 

Hannibal tilted his head, considering her, and the light crashed and broke across his nose. “Abigail doesn’t look embarrassed to me.”

It was true, she didn’t feel embarrassed. She felt warm and wet like one of the chicken hearts. Soft, but not pliant. She had chew to her, is what he’d say. And bite. “‘M not,” she said, shaking her head. 

“Do you know why you can’t smell me like you can with Will?” 

“Are you like-- how I was?” 

Hannibal nodded. “Not the same, but similar. There are some things about my body that are...unconventional for an adult omega. Some are natural and some are by design.” 

“What did you do?” Abigail asked. Her eyes skated over his face, his chest, the set of his jaw. 

“I neutralized a few things. Removed others completely. Modern medicine is an incredible thing.” 

Will sipped at his tea again, his eyes hazy and wet. Abigail wanted to lick them, see how salty they were. 

“That’s enough about me, though. You said you can smell Will very strongly-- what is it he reminds you of?” 

“Hannibal,” Will said, soft eyes gone cutting and sharp, “I hardly think that’s appropriate.” 

“Isn’t it? We’re all adults.” 

“Some more than others,” Will said, throwing back the last of his tea. 

“And isn’t that a privilege of this life? To choose which barriers to keep and which to break?” 

Abigail swirled a finger through the raspberry coulis on her plate, noticing how she could see the dark parts of the tablecloth pattern through the china in some places. “Moss,” she said, “and a salt lick on a hot day. Will reminds me of slept-in pajamas. And the hard kind of tree sap that collects on the bark inside the stand. It looks like rain but it smells like fresh-cut wood.” 

When she looked up, Abigail was alarmed to find that Will was staring straight at her. 

“That’s a lovely description, Abigail. Will, what does she smell like to you?” 

“Hot brass. Brine. And rotting honeysuckle.” Will tilted his head, looked at Hannibal, and looked away to his hands. 

“Abigail, do you remember what we talked about last time I visited you.” 

“Uh-huh,” Abigail said, not trusting herself to say any more. If she focused hard, she swore she could see Will’s pulse racing at his neck. 

“Do you see what I meant?” 

She nodded. 

Hannibal beckoned her over to his chair. “What do you want, Abigail? What do you want to be?” 

She stood there, hovering over Will, and felt herself falling into the blackness at the bottoms of his pupils as he looked back. She touched him without thinking, tilting his chin so she could see just how much taller she was this way. His eyelashes were as dark as the darkest parts of his hair. His pupils tightened as the bright overhead light fell over them. 

“I want him,” she said, to Hannibal, to the slack and mountainous portrait of Will’s face. 

“Did you hear that, Will?” 

Will made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, like he might be paralyzed and groaning in pain. 

“Go ahead,” said Hannibal, from somewhere interminably far from them both. “Taste him, Abigail. He wants you, too.” 

And if the way Will smelled made Abigail’s spine tense like a bowstring and her belly ache, the taste of him lit her up like phosphorus. His stubble scratched her face in a way no high school mustache had ever come close, but his lips were soft like fresh meat. 

His tongue tasted better than anything Hannibal had ever fed her, or ever would. Except-- Abigail giggled into Will’s mouth at the thought. Hannibal kind of had fed him to her, hadn’t he? 

She kissed him like that for what felt like hours, until her calves and back and shoulders ached, but she wasn’t sick of it, couldn’t be sick of it. When she had kissed boys her own age, it seemed like her mouth always got dry after one or two licks, but kissing Will felt like kissing a well. The longer it went on, the deeper and wetter his mouth felt on hers. 

She didn’t even notice when his hands came up to grip her shoulders, pull her down onto his lap. And she wanted to. She wanted to fall over the broad seat of his hips and melt into him. But before she could, Hannibal lifted her back, pulling her so gently by the arm to another room that she thought by the time she got there that it must have been her idea all along. 

“This is the bedroom,” he whispered in her ear. “Taste whatever you’d like. Sweet Will won’t say no. He’ll give anything you want to take from him.” 

She didn’t know how, but somehow Will was here, too, sitting at the edge of the bed, as soft and still as she’d left him in the dining room. 

His clothes seemed to melt off of him as Abigail descended on him, and with each layer came more and more of that salt-and-sap smell. 

Abigail rocked her hips over him, on him, feeling his khakis and his shy cotton boxers and finally the curly-soft expanse of his pubic hair, tangling with hers as she pushed their lips against one another. 

“So wet,” she said in amazement, about Will and herself. 

“You are,” came Hannibal’s voice, from somewhere nearby. Fingers swept up through Abigail’s cunt lips and pushed down into Will’s, who gasped and flushed at the feeling. “You both are.” 

“I want it,” Abigail said, then again, looking into Will’s face, “I want you. I want to- Please, let me--” 

“Whatever you want,” he said, looking back, and Abigail could feel his expression on her own face, making her into a mirror. “I want you to.” 

Abigail reached between her legs to find another hand already there, touching her as perfectly as she had touched herself a few nights ago. 

She choked on a stuttering sound. “D-D-”

“Hannibal,” he said, right into the sinew of her neck. 

“Hannibal-” Abigail’s voice swooped and pitched as he pinched her growing hardness and she could feel it, growing from out between her lips, hot, hidden skin meeting cool air. 

Will made a quiet, open-mouthed noise as Abigail buried two fingers into his hole, then three. His smell was overwhelming, pulling her down like a magnet until she was licking her fingers desperately. She had thought she couldn’t eat any more but-- But, fuck, she could. 

Hannibal tugged, Abigail gasped. “That’s my cock,” she said, staring down at it, lovely and long and pink and smooth. 

Hannibal’s fingers slipped lightly around it, smearing slick and lube and precum up and down. Abigail could have sworn she saw shapes in the lights that danced in the wetness. “It’s mine, too. Our cock, Abigail.” 

“Ours. Yeah, ours.” 

“Now are you going to fuck Will with our perfect cock?” 

“Yes,” Abigail said, “yes.” And she did, with Hannibal’s fingers encircled around the base, squeezing her like a second cunt, like her own cunt, which he buried his fingers in until she cried out for more, then less, then _more_. 

Will came once and after it felt like he never stopped coming, sucking her in like a mouth until she realized she had popped her knot without even noticing, Hannibal’s merciless fingers finally letting it go. And then Will _really_ came. Or maybe it was Abigail who came. Or maybe it was both of them, wild and undone at the ends of Hannibal’s wrists. She felt helpless as she finally drifted off to sleep locked tight inside Will’s cunt, helpless and strong and perfectly safe. 

\--

When she woke in the morning, Hannibal had gone, leaving her nestled against Will’s side, her face buried in his neck. He smelled of sticky, dried sweat and that other, balsam sweetness. She ached all over from having slept so strangely, but couldn’t bear to let him go. 

Craning her neck back to stretch it, Abigail felt something cool slip against the top of her breast and drew a hand back to see what it was. It was a fine silver chain, long enough to reach her sternum, weighed down by a plain silver key, warm from the touch of her skin. 

**Author's Note:**

> RE: CW: In this fic, Abigail (an alpha) was forced by her father to take hormone replacements to mask herself as an omega. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are so, so appreciated!


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